by K. A. Tucker
Finding out that I’ve been lying to him.
Finding Ginger.
God knows what he’d do to her then.
“This isn’t a game. Get rid of her and check your email right away,” Sam demands in a clipped tone.
“Okay.” I don’t hesitate, not for a split second. Even though I wasn’t expecting a call for another week or two and I really don’t want to do a drop today. But I guess business is good for Sam.
For us.
The phone goes dead and I shut the bathroom door before taking a seat on the toilet, clutching my nauseous stomach with my arms. Stupid, stupid Charlie! What was I thinking? I need to be smarter about this. This is all pretend. A pretend life, pretend friends, pretend laughter.
Pretend feelings.
I’m getting comfortable here, and that’s a bad move. It’s too risky. I can slip up too easily. One simple phone call just proved that if I’m not careful, Sam will become suspicious.
And having Sam suspicious can’t possibly end well.
Pulling out my other phone—of course, I remembered to keep that one close to me!—I quickly find his instructions. Bob and Eddie again. Today at three p.m. I sigh. Today is Monday, our day off. Ginger and I were going shopping this afternoon. I was actually looking forward to it. I needed another outfit for the stage.
I guess I’ll have to ditch her.
Bitterness swells inside my chest over the prospect. He’s a thousand miles away, but Sam continues to keep me firmly pressed under his thumb. What kind of father wouldn’t want his child to have a friend? Just one!
Checking my face in the mirror, I see that my complexion is still sickly pale. That should help my cause.
Ginger is on me the second I get out. “Why do you have two phones?”
I open my mouth to answer but falter. My prepared answer has always been simple. Work. Only I can’t use that excuse now.
Ginger has her own ideas, though. “Are you an undercover cop?”
The very suggestion has me bursting out with laughter. If you only knew how far off you really are! Thankfully, the laugh is what I needed to jog my mind into what I hope is a plausible answer. “That carrier has a better long-distance plan on it, so I use it to call my parents.”
“Oh . . .” Her lips twist. “That was your dad?”
I nod.
Making a point of flipping her magazine closed and tossing it on the coffee table, Ginger announces, “Well, sorry to say, but your dad’s not very nice.”
“What’d he say to you?”
“Besides the interrogation? Not much.”
I fight to keep calm as another bubble of panic bursts inside my throat and the blood drains from my face once again. Oh no . . . “What did you tell him, Ginger?”
“Nothing, other than my name. He wouldn’t tell me who he was, so I wasn’t offering him any more info. He probably told you I was a bitch.”
The sigh of relief escapes my lips before I can control myself. I know I shouldn’t say it. I know it will only raise suspicion, but I can’t risk the alternative. “Ginger, please don’t ever answer my phone again.”
She sits up straight, her frown back, only deeper. “I was only trying to help.”
“I know.” Ginger is generally easygoing, but I’ve seen her get bent out of shape when criticized for doing something she thinks is helpful. “Just . . . next time, bring the phone to me, rather than answer it.”
Flopping back onto my couch, she mutters, “Fine. Whatever.” There’s a pause as she stares at me. “Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale.”
That played out nicely . . . “Actually, I’m not feeling great, Ginger. I think that yogurt I ate may have been bad. My stomach’s acting up.”
Ginger’s pretty face falls, her irritation vanishing in a second. “Oh, I’m sorry. Don’t worry about shopping today, then. Go rest.” She gets up and walks over to rub my shoulders. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I grit my teeth against my rising guilt for lying to my friend.
■ ■ ■
Ginger is supposed to be at the beach but she’s not. I can see through my window that she’s stretched out on a lounge chair in the common area, suntanning. To make matters worse, Tanner is out there too, doing his best to avoid looking in her general direction while he grills and she chatters at him.
And now I’m stuck in my apartment with a pair of yoga shorts, a tank top, and a wig in a gym bag, with less than an hour until my drop time, wondering how the hell I’m going to get past them. I’ve already tested the bars on the windows to see if I could sneak out the back way. I can’t. As luck would have it, they’re not just for decoration.
Why did I use the sick excuse? Why didn’t I just say I had an appointment that I forgot about? Dammit! Now there’s no way I can get out there without being caught in my lie.
I wait another twenty minutes with my fingers crossed that they’ll leave, but they don’t. Finally, I can’t wait any longer. With a deep breath, and an excuse that I hope will work, I quietly open my door. There’s a small—stupid—part of me that thinks they won’t notice me sneak out if I’m quiet.
“Charlie!” Ginger’s long, sculpted body is out of her chair in a second. She really could be a stripper, with those curves. Tanner turns to acknowledge me, catches Ginger in her bikini, and quickly diverts his attention back to his chicken wings with a slight flush to his cheeks.
“Are you feeling better? Do you need something?” Her worry is genuine and sweet.
And feeding my guilt.
“I’m just running to the store for some medicine.”
“Oh, you stay home. I’ll get it for you,” Ginger quickly insists, her hands on my shoulders to stop me. I feel her strength as she attempts to turn me around and push me back into my apartment. “I stuck around in case you needed anything.”
Shit. Ginger isn’t making this easy. Think fast! “It’s okay, Ginger. I need to see all of the packaging. There’s only one type of pill that doesn’t make me sick and I can’t remember the name of it.”
Her furrowed brow tells me she’s not accepting this answer. “Well, I’ll take pictures of all the packages and send them to you.”
I’m already shaking my head and backing away toward the gate. I can’t come up with anything more than, “No, no . . .”
Ginger pauses as if thinking this over. “Well, then wait up! Let me throw some clothes on. I’ll come with you.”
“No!” I don’t mean it to come out in a yell but it does. Dammit! Why does Ginger have to be so pushy and . . . such a good friend. I just need to leave. I need to run out of here and not have to explain myself or my actions. I knew this would happen. I knew living so close to friends would cause problems. I was better off in the roach-infested place. No one asked questions there. No one cared.
She bites her lip, and her eyes finally flicker to the straps around my shoulder. I intentionally have my gym bag tucked behind me, trying to hide it. A grimace forms on her face as she ponders something. “You’re not really sick, are you? You’re trying to ditch me.”
“I am sick, Ginger! Good grief. You’re paranoid.” I’m such a shitty friend.
Tanner clears his throat several times, as if to remind us that he’s standing right there, able to hear the conversation.
Ginger ignores him. “Are you going to the gym without me?”
“No, Ginger. I swear I’m not.”
With her hands landing on her hips, she heaves a sigh. “You’re pretending to be sick so you can ditch me for a guy. That’s what this is.” I can’t tell whether she’s annoyed or hurt or curious, or maybe a combination of all three. “Is this about Cain?”
Another throat clearing from Tanner. “No, Ginger. I’m not going to see a guy.”
Folding arms across her chest, her head tilting, she says, “Then it’s abou
t the guy on the phone. He isn’t really your father, is he?”
As if on cue, the burner phone in my purse begins ringing again. I should already be at the café to meet Jimmy. I have no more time for this. “I’ll talk to you later, Ginger,” I say as I walk briskly away. Except I don’t know that she’ll talk to me. I may have just lost my first real friend.
■ ■ ■
“This isn’t a fucking hair appointment and we’re not girlfriends,” Bob snaps the second the door to the hotel bedroom is shut.
“I’m sorry. There was construction,” I mutter. I’ve already gotten an earful from Jimmy, and I’m sure I’ll get Sam’s silent treatment when I talk to him afterward.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Eddie mutters, sitting in his usual spot, watching the television screen and appearing indifferent.
Bob is a different story. “I don’t fucking care if a road blew up. This is the big leagues. You get here on time and everything goes smoothly. It’s called respect. You show up late and I get pissed off. You don’t want me pissed off.”
I give a curt nod, wondering if I’ve misread Bob’s role here. I thought he was just the muscle. Right now, as his meaty paws begin their rough and invasive search of my body, he’s acting like he runs the whole show and me being fifteen minutes late is a personal attack upon him.
When his hands reach my inner thighs and I involuntarily stiffen, he stands to meet my eyes, a flicker of amusement touching his otherwise cheerless face. “Don’t think because you’re late that we’re going to skip a wire search.” He makes a point of holding my eyes as his hands reach around to prod my ass, as if silently telling me that he can get away with just about anything right now. I say nothing, keeping my face calm, unperturbed. I can’t keep the sweat from beginning to trickle, though. I’m not that controlled.
Grabbing my hips and spinning me around to face the wall, Bob doesn’t warn me before he yanks my shirt up, stretching the bottom over my shoulders. I feel his fingers curl around the back of my sports bra as he begins tugging at the clasps.
What the fuck? This is new. This didn’t happen last time . . .
“It’s easy to hide wires in these things,” he explains, though I can’t help but hear the wicked smile in his voice. Bullshit. This is Bob trying to assert authority over me. I bite my tongue to keep the complaints at bay.
This will be over soon.
When Bob is still struggling with the clasps after ten seconds, a chuckle slips out of my lips, unbidden. “Not a lot of experience with those, Bob?”
Eddie’s bark of laughter sounds a second before my body jerks from a violent tug. I hear the tear of fabric as the feeling of support disappears and I know that Bob has ruined a very good sports bra. He begins stretching, pulling, and twisting the material as he mutters, “Keep it up, Jane. I’ve done strip searches before. Never can be too cautious of a rat.”
My stomach flips with his words and I grit my teeth before anything else rash and stupid slips out of my mouth. I know that I was lucky Sal never raped me. I know that I won’t be so lucky a second time. But I can’t let Bob see that I’m afraid, and I sure as hell can’t let him talk to me like this or I’ll never have a solid footing in these drops again. From somewhere deep inside, I manage to pull out an icy tone to retort, “Maybe I should give details about these romantic little sessions of ours when I speak to Big Sam on the phone.”
Eddie’s snort sounds in the background. “We’re going to be doing business together for a while. How about you two lovebirds start getting along.”
Bob’s invasive hands reach around to slide over my breasts. He says nothing, but I hear his sharp exhale as he cups each of them for a tad too long.
“All right . . .,” Eddie growls.
Bob’s hands finally fall away and he announces, “All clear.”
I yank my shirt down and turn around, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around my chest as we complete the rest of the transaction. It takes mere minutes and then I’m out.
Another successful drug drop to add to my résumé.
Another horrid memory to bury with my sordid past when I get away.
I have to focus on taking deliberate steps to keep myself from running down the hall, out of the elevator, and away from that hotel. And for some reason, I can’t shake the image of a beautiful dark-haired man from my mind, only it’s marred by a look of disgust. The same look Cain had on his face the day he moved me out of my apartment.
The look isn’t meant for my drug addict neighbors, though.
It’s meant for me.
Despite the oppressive late afternoon heat, I feel a chill course through my body.
■ ■ ■
Something has shifted in the air since our conversation two nights ago. I can’t quite peg it. It’s not the music, though the song I’ve chosen—“Sail,” by Awolnation—is decidedly slower. It’s not my routine, though I need to temper some of the moves to flow with the music. It’s certainly not Cain’s attention. He’s still standing in his customary location, still watching with that intense gaze as I peel articles of clothing off. It’s not the lighting or the location or the crowd—it’s as congested as always.
And yet there is suddenly more. Something much deeper and more substantial lingering in the air.
A magnetic pull.
An ache in my chest.
Is it what was said the other night? His confession, however brief?
I can’t place what has changed but I still feel it after I leave the stage, and it’s both enticing and troublesome.
I’m so distracted as I trot down the steps, on my way to the dressing room, that I don’t see the man until I run smack into him.
“Excuse me,” I begin to mutter until I look up and into cold blue eyes.
And gasp.
If there was any question in his mind, any doubt as to whether I was the same girl that delivered heroin to him yesterday, my reaction confirms it.
Bob’s mouth stretches into a wide, wicked grin. “Well, well. Came in for a show. Didn’t expect a shock.”
This is bad. So very bad. If only I weren’t so fixated on Cain, I would have seen Bob coming. I would have spotted him in the crowd and hidden my face from him. Fuck! Of all the clubs he could be in, he has to be in this one? Is this a fluke? Or did he tail me here?
Based on the look on his face, I don’t think so. I think he’s telling me the truth and he’s as surprised to find me here as I am to see him.
“I guess you’ll be stripping for us from now on, seeing as you’re a professional. Isn’t that right, Charlie?” A slight slur in his words tells me he’s far from sober.
Even better. I don’t know what kind of drunk he is and whether I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. But the fact that he approached me so openly tells me I can’t. With hesitation, my eyes flash over to Cain. I breathe a small sigh of relief. He’s still there, talking to Nate, his eyes trained on something else. It doesn’t look like he has noticed me with Bob yet.
If I stand here any longer, he surely will. Or Nate will. Or Ben. I can’t have any of them talking to my drunk, drug-trafficking partner.
I need to deal with this potentially explosive situation and fast.
Swallowing my revulsion, I offer Bob a fake friendly smile as I loop my arm through his and lead him to the one place I will have privacy until I convince him to turn around and leave. I approach the two no-neck bouncers guarding the V.I.P. room entrance, readying my lie, that Cain has given me the go-ahead.
And I pray that Cain isn’t watching my back right now.
The two guys—seemingly as wide as they are tall—look at me, then at Bob, and give me a single nod. I don’t waste another second, leading Bob into the first available room. Ginger gave me a tour weeks ago, so I know the rooms are all the same—clean, dimly lit, and simply furnished. Since then, I’ve visited the
se rooms only in my dreams, both on the stage and at night. Cain has always been the one waiting for me inside.
Being in here with Bob has turned the setting into a nightmare.
“What would Mom and Pop say about their little Charlie showing her tits onstage and traffic—”
“Shut up!” I snap, whirling around to face him. He must be drunker than I first believed. “For someone in the big leagues,” I air quote that, mocking him for his earlier scolding, “you sure shoot your mouth off.” I tilt my head toward the camera in the corner of the room, my brow intentionally arched.
Bob catches my move and dismisses it with a snort and a lazy wave. “Those are for show. None of these owners actually want proof of what happens in here.”
“This owner does,” I warn slowly, though I silently pray that he’s right. I also pray that the sound doesn’t work on the recording. I’m hoping the music pumping out over the speakers will muffle our words, in any case.
Rubbing his chin, a pondering look suddenly touching his face, Bob murmurs, “You know, Eddie’s been trying to connect with this guy for years. Seeing as you work here—”
“Not happening. Cain will have you thrown in jail before you get the proposal out of your mouth. He wants nothing to do with that world. You need to leave, right now.”
Bob’s face twists with displeasure. I gather he doesn’t like being told what to do. Just as quickly, though, it smooths over. “Sure thing, Charlie.”
Suppressing an eye roll, I turn toward the door, intent on leaving the room. A vice-like grip over my wrist stops me. “Don’t turn your back on me.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves as I quickly assess the situation I’ve put myself in. Bob is semi-respectable when he’s sober. But he’s not sober now and, clearly, not at all respectable. He’s also a big, muscular drug dealer who may not have hurt me yet but could easily do so tonight, And for some reason, he now thinks he has the upper hand on me because he’s invaded my “real” life.
